The Doorkeepers

by Graham Masterton

  Nancy went through the chest of drawers. “Nothing, only two buttons and a light bulb.”

  Josh opened the wardrobe doors. There was nothing inside except an odd collection of wire hangers, the kind that Joan Crawford detested so much, and two pairs of women’s flat-heeled shoes, right at the bottom. Josh picked up one of the shoes. Inside, faded gold lettering said Steps, San Francisco.

  “This is Julia’s,” he said, holding it up. “She always bought her shoes at Steps.”

  “Well, that proves that she was here. But that doesn’t prove who killed her,” said Nancy.

  “She was killed in this world, I’m sure of it.”

  “By this guy Frank Mordant, from Wheatstone Electrics?”

  “It looks suspiciously like it, don’t you think?”

  “I think you should be very careful. Just because the love of John Farbelow’s life disappeared when she was working for Frank Mordant, that doesn’t necessarily mean that he murdered her, and it certainly doesn’t prove that he murdered Julia. I’ve met guys like John Farbelow before. They’re charismatic, they’re revolutionary, but they’re usually full of shit.”

  Josh picked up the other shoe. It was blue suede, stained with grit and rainwater, as if Julia had been wearing it when she walked through a park. Its toes were packed with newspaper to stop them from curling up. Josh wormed his finger into the toes, pulled out the newspaper and spread it flat on the bed. It was a page from the appointments section of the London Evening Standard. Circled in red was a small display ad which read:

  Looking For A New Job? Looking For A New Life? If you’re looking to leave your old job and your old life behind you, if you want to work somewhere totally fresh and totally different, our international electrical company has vacancies for young and enthusiastic secretarial staff. Above average pay. No computer or w/p skills required. Apply Box 331 for details.

  “There’s no date on it,” said Josh. “But I can guess.”

  “So what do you think this man Frank Mordant is doing? Hiring girls in our world, bringing them through to this world, and murdering them?”

  “The ideal crime, isn’t it? Nobody misses them in this world, because they never existed. No birth records, no school records, no social security number. And nobody in our world can find the murderer, because he’s here.”

  “But why is he murdering them?”

  “Why does anyone murder anybody else? Maybe Frank Mordant is a psychotic serial killer who has found a way to kill as many women as he likes and get away with it, and maybe that’s good enough for him.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  Josh folded up the paper. “What I’ve seen here today … that’s proof enough for me that Julia was living here. All we have to do now is go see what Frank Mordant has to say for himself.”

  He crossed the landing and opened the door to the second bedroom. It was similar to Julia’s room, except that it had a bay window, and there was a small brick fireplace with a damp patch beside it. He opened the wardrobe but it was stacked with neatly-folded blankets, a hot-water bottle, and an old electric fire without a plug.

  He went back out to the landing and opened another door. Airing cupboard, filled with sheets. Then bedroom three, a smaller bedroom at the back, crowded with cardboard boxes and books. “Looks like the boxroom,” said Josh, peering around. But with a prickle of shock he suddenly caught sight of a dark figure standing in the corner, half-hidden behind the wardrobe.

  “Jesus!” he said, jumping back, and jarring his shoulder against the door frame.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Simon, and launched himself down the stairs. But Nancy said, “Stop it! Stop it! What are you afraid of?”

  Josh stopped, and took another look in the corner. The dark figure remained motionless. It was nothing but a dressmaking dummy with a large felt hat tilted sideways on top of it. He covered his face with his hands and shook his head. “I must be letting this whole thing get to me. Scared of a one-legged dummy.”

  He closed the bedroom door and went across to the bathroom. Simon stayed where he was, halfway down the stairs. He didn’t say anything: he had given up trying. But he remained poised, ready to run out of the house at the slightest suggestion of trouble.

  “I just want to check that Julia didn’t leave anything personal here,” said Josh. “If she left a toothbrush or a razor or something, we could have that checked for DNA.”

  “Who by? The police in this world won’t be able to do it. Even if they have the inclination, I doubt if they have the technology.”

  “I just want to gather as much proof as possible,” said Josh. “I’ll worry about the way we’re going to use it when I’ve got it.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Nancy, and it was then that Josh opened the bathroom door.

  Sixteen

  It was the smell that hit them first, and all three of them cried out in a chorus of disgust. Josh couldn’t imagine how it hadn’t permeated the whole house; and then he realized that he had been smelling it, all the way upstairs, and that he hadn’t really registered what it was. And then there was the noise: the furious zizzing of hundreds of glittering bluebottles as he disturbed them in the middle of their feasting and their egg-laying.

  The smell was ripe and sweet and almost visibly green. All of the bathroom windows were closed and an electric wall-heater had been left on, which had increased the temperature inside the bathroom to well over eighty degrees. Above the bath hung a wooden drying-frame, intended for drip-dry shirts and pantyhose. But spreadeagled on this frame was what appeared at first sight to be a half-gutted animal.

  It was only when Josh stepped closer, keeping his hand clamped over his nose and mouth, that he understood what he was actually looking at. The animal was a woman – a naked, gray-haired woman, her body split wide open from her chin to her pubic hair. It was impossible to see who she was, or who she might have been, because her face was crawling with bluebottles, as if she were wearing a living Mardi Gras mask.

  On the green-tiled wall, a large cross had been marked in blood and excrement.

  Josh pulled the door shut. Nancy was already halfway down the stairs, with Simon close behind her. Simon didn’t bother to go back through the kitchen: he snatched open the front door and took three stiff-legged steps outside, gasping for air. Nancy leaned up against the porch, both hands clasped over her stomach, saying, “God … oh my God. That was appalling.”

  Josh said, “We’d better get out of here. Whoever did that to Mrs Marmion, they won’t hesitate to do it to us, too.”

  “The Hoodies,” said Simon. “Didn’t you see the cross? They always do that.”

  They climbed back into the Austin. Simon swung the starting-handle and the motor chugged into life. Then he executed a fifteen-point turn, with a gladiatorial clashing of gears, and managed to point the car back the way they had come.

  “They must have guessed that we were coming to see her,” said Nancy.

  “I doubt if it was a guess,” put in Simon. “The Hoodies have people in the telephone exchange, they listen to everything. You can’t even phone up your fishmonger without them knowing about it.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Course not. It’s all allowed under the God’s Word Act. They can’t allow people to talk a lot of popery, even in private.”

  They drove down St John’s Hill toward Wandsworth. Josh glanced out of the rear window from time to time to make sure that they weren’t being followed, but there was a convoy of three buses behind them which would have made it very difficult for anybody to keep them in sight.

  Nancy said, “We can’t stay here, Josh. It’s much too dangerous. We have to go back.”

  “Not bad advice, guvnor,” said Simon. “Even if it was Frank Mordant that topped your sister, how are you going to prove it? So far as this world’s concerned, she never existed, so she couldn’t have been topped; and so far as your world’s concerned, Frank Mordant is gone without a trace, ain’t he, and you tr
y convincing your constabulary to come here and collar him.”

  “You’re not suggesting I let him get away with it?”

  “I don’t see that you’ve got very much choice. You’ve got a body in one world and a murderer in another, and never the twain shall meet. You might find proof enough to get him arrested, even without a body. But then there’s the question of the Hoodies. It looks like he’s come to some sort of arrangement with them; and if that’s the case, you won’t have a dog’s chance of getting him convicted. One wink to the reeve and that’ll be it, no case to answer, your worship. You saw that woman back there. They’re a law unto themselves, the Hoodies. Do what they like, say what they like, kill who they like; and all in the name of God.”

  “Josh, we have to go back,” Nancy insisted.

  “The world’s taken a turn around since you first arrived,” put in Simon. “You can go back as soon as you like.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Josh. “What if I can never find my way back here again? How can I spend the rest of my life knowing that the man who strangled Julia is going unpunished? And if he murdered John Farbelow’s girlfriend, too, how many times has he done it before, and how many times is he going to do it again?”

  “There are times in this vale of tears, guvnor, when we just have to admit that we’re up against a brick wall.”

  “That’s exactly right. We are up against a brick wall. But you and I know that if you have enough faith, you can jump right through that brick wall.”

  “Can’t see your constabulary swallowing that. Even if they did, they wouldn’t have any jurisdiction over here, now would they?”

  “I wasn’t talking about the cops. There are other ways of settling scores than calling the cops.”

  “Like what?” Nancy demanded. “Killing Frank Mordant yourself?”

  “Of course not. But if he did do it, I can think of a whole lot of ways to make his life a misery. Mind you, if I did kill him, I wouldn’t be caught for it, would I? Any more than he’s ever going to be caught for killing Julia. But it would be justice.”

  “Justice? If you killed him, then you’d be just as evil as he is. Besides, I can’t imagine you having the nerve to kill anybody. You killed that dog and you can’t stop blaming yourself.”

  “The dog was innocent.”

  “The dog was going to kill a man. You had to make a choice. Now you have to make another choice.”

  “You ought to think about going back, guvnor,” said Simon, his eyes floating in the rear-view mirror. “You don’t want to underestimate the Hoodies, believe you me; and if Frank Mordant really is their man they won’t let you get away with giving him grief. You’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your natural. I’ll tell you something else: don’t trust that John Farbelow further than you can throw him. He’s the kind of cove who gets everybody else to do his dirty work for him. For all you know, he’s got a grudge against Frank Mordant for something quite different, and there never was no girl what he met on the number fifteen bus. What could suit him better than for you to do his topping for him?”

  Nancy reached across and sandwiched Josh’s hand between hers. She was looking tired and stressed, and he could see that the sight of Mrs Marmion had been just too much for her. He suddenly realized how tired he was, and how dirty he felt. They needed to get back to “real” London for a rest and a shower, if nothing else.

  “OK, then,” he said. “Take us to Star Yard. Do you know anyplace where we can buy some candles?”

  “Ironmongers on the corner here, guvnor.”

  Simon parked the car and left them sitting in the back seat while he went to buy some candles. Nancy said, “You shouldn’t come back here again, Josh. You’ve got an idea of what might have happened to Julia … you don’t need to follow it up any further.”

  “I’m sorry, Nance, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s no way that I can leave this unfinished.”

  “But what about the Hooded Men? Look what they did to that woman!”

  “That’s exactly my point. There have been Hooded Men all through history, of one kind or another. The day we let them intimidate us, that’s the day we might as well get our dogs to dig us some graves, and scoop the earth back on top of us.”

  “Of everybody in the world, Josh, you’re the only person I know who could persuade a dog to do that.”

  They drove through crawling traffic along the Embankment until they reached Charing Cross. The rain was even heavier now, and as they turned up Villiers Street the sidewalks were crowded with bobbing black umbrellas. Villiers Street was a steep gradient, and the Austin whinnied up it like a protesting old horse. On the corner of the Strand, a drummer was silhouetted, his triangular black hat dripping with rainwater.

  “Keep your heads down,” Simon advised them. “He’s a Watcher. He probably won’t recognize you, but you never know your bloody rotten luck.”

  It took them nearly twenty minutes to drive from Santa Cruz Square to the Aldwych. The road was clogged with buses and horse-drawn wagons, and two enormous horse-drawn drays were drawn up outside a half-timbered pub called The Battle of Winceby. The rain trickled down the Austin’s windows and Simon kept tapping the thermometer gauge because the engine was overheating.

  At last they turned into Chancery Lane, and then left into Carey Street. The torrential rain had forced a pieman to cover up his “Eric the Pie” stall with wet tarpaulins and wheel it away, and Simon was able to park in the space that he had just vacated. There was still a smell of hot coke and beef pies in the rain as Josh and Nancy and Simon climbed out of the Austin. They made their way up Star Yard, their collars pulled up, their heads ducked down.

  They reached the niche, which was still clogged up with wet rubbish. Simon took the brown-paper package of candles out of his pocket, and set three of them down on the ground. He produced a cigarette lighter and flicked it, and managed to light two of the candles, but every time he tried to light the third it was instantly extinguished by the rain.

  “Come on, you bastard,” he snarled at it, and tried to light it again. It managed to flicker for a moment, but then the rain put it out again, and then another candle went out.

  “Here,” said Josh, and leaned over him, holding his coat out like an umbrella. Simon managed to light all three candles for a few triumphant seconds, but as soon as Josh stepped away, two of them went out again.

  “How about finding someplace to wait this rain out?” Josh suggested. “A pub, maybe. I don’t know about you, but I could sure use a serious drink.”

  Simon flicked his cigarette lighter yet again. “No good hanging around, guvnor. The forecast is, bucketing down till next Wednesday fortnight. Hold your coat up again.”

  Josh leaned over the niche once more, and Simon managed to light all three candles. This time, Josh stayed where he was, to give the wicks time to burn more strongly. But as he waited, he thought he heard a faint sound like a train approaching, over a jointed track.

  He shook his wet hair. It was difficult to distinguish anything over the clatter of the rain and the roaring of buses and the sizzle of tires on the tarmac-covered cobbles. “Do you hear that?” he asked Nancy. “Kind of like a train.”

  Nancy lifted her head. Her forehead was decorated with beads of rain, and her eyelashes sparkled. She listened for a moment, and then she nodded. “Drums” she said.

  Simon stood up, too. “They’re coming nearer. They’re definitely coming nearer.”

  “They don’t know that we’re here, do they? How do they know that we’re here?”

  “Perhaps that Watcher spotted us. Don’t ask me, I’m not a per-sychic.”

  “Maybe they’re not coming this way,” said Nancy. But the trat-a-trat-trat was growing louder and louder; and it wasn’t long before they could hear it quite distinctly over the grinding of the traffic.

  “We’re going to have to go,” said Josh. “Simon … you’d better get the hell out of here. Tell me where to find you when I come back.”
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br />   “Josh …” said Nancy. She wasn’t only warning him to hurry, she was telling him that she didn’t want him to come back, ever.

  “Go to the British Museum. John Farbelow will know where to find me.”

  “OK,” said Josh, and grasped his hand. “And, look, if I don’t make it back …”

  The drums were battering off the sides of the nearby buildings, and people were hurrying past them as fast as they could. Even if you hadn’t lied or stolen or committed a blasphemy, even if you didn’t have a Book of Common Prayer secreted under your mattress, it was better to keep well out of the way of the drums and the dogs and the Hooded Men.

  “Nancy, you first,” said Josh. Nancy took three steps back and said, “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick.”

  As she ran forward, however, a rain-filled gust swept across the sidewalk, and all of the candles blew out. She struck the brick wall with her shoulder and almost fell over.

  “There’s no time to do this now,” said Josh. “Let’s get out of here and try it again later, when we can rig up something to keep the candles alight.”

  At that moment, however, dog-handlers came round the corner of Star Yard and Carey Street, and drummers appeared behind them, from the direction of Chancery Lane. The drumming was totally deafening now. It seemed to make the rain rattle and the paving slabs shake. And behind the drummers, Josh could see the silhouettes of Puritan hats and buckles, and heads that were covered in hessian hoods, and the shine of long sharp swords.

  Simon was down on his knees, frantically trying to relight the candles. He lit one, then another, and then another. Josh put his arm around Nancy and held her tight, and she covered her ears to blot out the drumming. The first candle blew out, but Simon persisted and lit it again, just as the first of the dogs came barking and slathering up to him.

  “Jump!” Josh shouted at Nancy. He seized hold of her fringed buckskin sleeves and almost threw her over the candles, toward the solid brick wall. She landed on the other side of the candles, and turned.